Pulp and wrack, for example. She told us certain words were necessary. (When I say she, I am of course praying, so I mean J.K. Rowling [on her sable blouse, sliding, bubbling foam of Cola]). I stumbled upon a wet pile of crows, all of them executed, no meat taken, their mouths frozen open, their tiny pink tongues, their yellow eyes staring in dull amazement—that did it for me. I was free. I sought her out, OK? She suggested adverbs. She touched me for a dollar. She said the finest thing would be a natural disaster the morning after every Holiday. Someone set a pig aflame. Grasshoppers and Phosphorus Flowers from the sky. We came to a vast plain filled with car after car, all parked in tidy rows, everything intact, except…not one of them had an engine. The rain curled into a ball. We slipped beneath the chasses, into mascaras of mud. A shiv made from a windshield wiper in my white-knuckled fist. What is all of this? “This?” J.K. Rowling said. “That kind of talk we done with now. You best get ready.” Hoof-beats, the snow of plucked insect wings. Almost beautiful. “And here's another myth,” she hissed into my ear, before nipping the lobe in blood: “That something else will happen.”
2
favs |
1154 views
2 comments |
230 words
All rights reserved. |
Books
This story has no tags.
“This?” J.K. Rowling said. “That kind of talk we done with now. You best get ready.”
Harry Potter will never be the same!
Very cool flash. :)
I like pieces like this, fragments that, for me, move somewhere between prose, poetry, and the lyric essay. I particularly like your use of J.K. Rowling as a character. Of course, any story that features "pigs aflame" is always moving in the right direction. Excellent.